Blue Skies and Butterfly Wings
by someone on the internet
Summary: "Later, she would credit her survival to a few key things... She would never know why she did it, but she without a doubt believed it saved her life." Rosalia managed to survive her father's onslaught and fled back to Portland, only to find all change.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Blue Skies and Butterfly Wings

**Summary:** "Later, she would credit her survival to a few key things... She would never know why she did it, but she without a doubt believed it saved her life." Rosalia managed to survive her father's onslaught and fled back to Portland, only to find nothing was as it was before. Rosalia-centric pre-game story.

**Notes:** Takes place before Trauma Team starts, obviously. For my friend who ran with my idea about this over the summer and did a short RP with me about it. Love ya!

EDIT: Changed to first person perspective.

* * *

><p>Later, I would credit my survival to a few key things; I had worn shoes, after coming in from moving some heavy wood (I hadn't wanted to drop the load on my toes), and I chose to run in the trees. I made the split-second decision to dash into the densely packed woods. I would never know why I did it, but I without a doubt believed it saved my life.<p>

.

Fear gripped my heart as I ran; adrenaline surged through my veins. I could hear his footsteps behind me, heavy and pausing. This wasn't happening, I chanted to myself. But run, run, run!

The sound from his throat sounded like a gurgled monster. It was easier to imagine a fearsome beast nipping at my heels than the man I had devoted my life to. Visualizing a gray, lumbering, sharp-toothed creature behind me, I pressed onward, sharply turning to the left, toward a gap in the trees to the open field. I wove deftly through the trees like a string on a loom. The ribbons in my hair flew in streams of pink behind me. A burn started to grow in my legs as I entered the shining sunlight.

I broke into a sprint, swinging my arms to give myself propulsion. The burn intensified and spread to my lungs; I wasn't a runner or very athletic at all. But primal instinct kept me going. Kept me running. There was a dusty country road a bit off that I took every other day to get to the nearby village. If I could reach the road, there would hopefully be someone there for help. I couldn't see it, but I kept on my plight.

I could hear him stumble behind me, a terrible retching sound coming from him. Every survival instinct cried at me to keep running, but my heart tore at me to stop. I dug my foot to halt myself, took a few calming gulps of air, and ran back to my father.

His arm was wrapped around himself, clutching his stomach, the other hand stuck to his mouth. His eyes screwed shut and his face crinkled in pain. I reached out my hand to him hesitantly. I forced my arm steady, trying to quash the damning tremors that ran through me.

He grabbed my hand, the other hand swinging down, blood dripping down his fingers like candle wax. I gasped and jerked my arm in his grip. As I struggled, he raised his gun, lifting the barrel to my chest. I wrestled my hand free, and thrust my knee toward him. As soon as I made contact, I ran backwards, getting distance between us.

A shot rang from the gun coupled with Sartre's anguished scream. The barrel pointed downward, toward a hole in his shoe, quickly filling with blood. He yelled, vomiting wetly, blood leaking crimson water out of the corner of his mouth. The gun slipped out of his hand, landing with a thud on the mockingly colorful flowers. I grabbed the weapon from the ground and held it with both hands at arms length in front of me. I shook all over, my eyes widened and my eyebrows met in a pleading expression.

"Dad, please, please," I whispered with frightened fervor.

He didn't respond to me, instead pulling out a switchblade from his coat pocket.

I would later replay the moment in my head with disturbing clarity.

Albert Sartre lunged, knife bared.

I panicked and pulled my finger back.

The gun went off with a resounding bang.

The aftershock of the shot ran through my arms, pushing me to the ground with violent force.

He stumbled backwards; vermilion blossoming across his shirt before falling down before me, his eyes glassy and unfocused. I sat up and scrambled toward the body. I stared at the broken figure on the ground, at the blood stained flowers around him.

I lifted my face to the clear, cloudless sky and screamed.

-x-x-x-

I didn't really know how long I sat there among the flowers, unable to move from the spot where I collapsed. It wasn't until the sky clouded over with thick gray that I woke from my stupor. I blinked a few times, clearing the veil from my eyes. I shakily stood and took a weak step to the house. It's so far, I wanted to scream. I felt as though I could barely walk, but it wouldn't do to stay in this spot.

I slowly made my way back to the house, stumbling slightly over my feet. The hazy sky was an anesthetic, all I felt was… absolutely nothing. I was completely numb. The door didn't have any weight to it. The metal of the knob had no slippery feel. I sat in the kitchen, staring at my hands. The clock ticked in the corner like a metronome, on and on, tick tock tick tock. I wanted to melt into my chair, to become a Rosalia-sculpture, a study of life in marble. I couldn't cry, there was nothing there to feel, no tears in my eyes.

My stomach gurgled painfully. Hunger, yes, food get. I welcomed the distraction and motivation to move. I went through the motions of getting food. As I sat down with the rolled cheese and meat I made, some of the numbness wore off, panic creeping to take its place.

What's gonna happen to me?

Where am I gonna go?

Who should I call?

I knew I couldn't stay here. I was only 14 years old. Eventually I would be found, and the consequences could be very bad. I took a deep breath to cleanse myself. I would go to the village and call…someone.

I got up to my feet and took a bag from the closet. I swept through the house, throwing anything that looked important, or at least what seemed important to my inside the bag haphazardly. An apple, a banana, half a loaf of bread, a manila folder labeled 'Rosalia' that I knew contained my personal documents, a wad of money from the ajar safe, a few pens, a calculator, my math notebook, it all went in the bag. I adjusted my shoes and ran out the door.

I made sure to specifically not take a path anywhere near the tree line. Skirting the edge of the rolling hill next to the house, I broke into a run, holding the bag close to my body. The wind streamed on my face and through my hair. My body hurtled down the declivity, gaining momentum as I tumbled downward. The dirt road path came into view, dusty and bleached by the harsh Mexican sun. I skidded to a stop by the roadside, looking quickly back and forth for any vehicles. Seeing none, I pulled myself together and began to hike down the road.

I kept my mind off everything with a mumbled song in my head, a little melody that had been real big on the radio a few years ago, back when I still lived in the states and everything was good. My brother hadn't liked the song because the lyrics didn't make much sense at all, but I did so he kept his frustrations to a minimum. He still told me it was a stupid song whenever it came on the radio.

Sweat beaded on the back of my neck as I kept on my way, feet kicking up tiny clouds of dust. I walked with determination and strong step, ready to get as far away as I could. But how? I mused the question, scowling with my thoughts. I knew I had the old orphanage and its number in my papers. But did I really want to drag them into it.

It was a Friday afternoon and most of the villagers were out of the way, seeking shelter from the blistering weather. Any outdoor vendors were hiding in discreet corners, if they were out at all. I turned down a street where one of the few phones capable of international calling was. The building I went to was a little general store, with paper-coated glass fronting and a dirty plastic sign on the front top. There was a rather distinct smell of paint in the air, accompanied by covered painting supplies. The store was being repainted, the side wall being transformed into a mural. It was a big project, and one that I now realized I would never see to completion. I cleared my mind of those sorts of thoughts as I opened the door.

The store was completely overwhelmingly musty, the lights in that strange half-place between clean and dirty. The middle-aged owner, a man who inherited the little shop from his parents (who inherited it from their parents) who tended to pull his pants up and cut his hair blunt on the tips of his ears, came out with a grin stretched on his lips.

"_Hola_, Rosalia," he greeted, recognizing me as I entered. I was, after all, a regular patron of his store.

"_Hola_. I need to get to the closest railway station," I greeted politely.

"That would be in Monterrey. Do you need a ride, _florita_?" he asked, using the little Spanish nickname he had come up for my, due to my obsession with flowers and gardens, and the "Rosa" in my name.

I nodded.

"I can drive you, just wait _por un momento_," the man said before turning to his office and entering. A few moments later he emerged with his keys in his hand. He was one of the few with a car, albeit an older one, and would often drive people to the larger cities near the village if needed. He crinkled his eyes in a smile and gestured to the door.

On the ride to the station, he seemed to have enough good sense to leave me alone. I supposed I was currently emanating some vibe that told to just let be. He did put a hand on my arm in a comforting gesture, driving with one hand. The bouncing of the car on the road rocked my, and the kindly store owner cracked the windows to give a breeze that swept across my face. I couldn't hold on; I slipped into sleep.

* * *

><p>NEXT CHAPTER!<p>

Rosalia gets back home, but doesn't know who to contact.

Um, so this is going to be a multichaptered thing, and I'm going to try really hard to be prompt and not procrastinate super hard. I really want to get a beta reader on board (to help with plot, writing, timeliness).

I got the idea for this late at night one summer day while getting the medals for Carpet of Blue Death. I texted my friend in extreme happiness, and thus this plot was born.

Peas read and review!


	2. Chapter 2

**Happy freaking holidays. Look, I got off my lazy butt and finished the chapter. **

**Only took me two months. I am a terrible person. But, I get into this thing where I don't write for a week cause it's performance week and then I try to write, but I keep thinking that because I didn't update before I have to make the chapter extra long and that never happens and it's a nasty cycle and bleh.**

**Thanks to my friend for editing this for me. I'll write that story for you, I promise (and draw the thing... I will I swear). Review and stuff.**

**DISCLAIMER: Liliafax does not have any claim over the characters and situations used in this story that are recognizable.**

* * *

><p>There's a reason the train system is called the "High Speed Rail"; it only took me a day to get to the border, where I had to switch to American lines. I took the trains to the West VirginiaMaryland border then got on a Bluehound bus to Portland.

It was gray and cloudy when I arrived downtown. Leftover storm moisture frizzed my hair almost as soon as I stepped off the bus. The streets had the not quite wet sheen of recent rain and the clean, earthy smell of washed out plants. I blinked for a moment, out of use from this weather. We rarely had rainstorms and subsequent cloudiness back in Mexico; I had forgotten what the humidity felt like.

Walking down the street was like a dream. I remembered things, and yet other aspects of this world were warped. A store changed, a park and courtyard added in what I remembered to be a parking lot. I wandered through, looking for some sort of public office: a post office, the courthouse, the police station.

I must have looked lost and confused because I was tapped on the shoulder.

"Excuse me, but are you looking for something?" the voice of a young woman asked sweetly. I turned to see a woman who could best be described as a "hipster", wearing thick-rimmed black glasses, an unbuttoned oversized sweater over a vintage Hepburn shirt, a knitted gray hat over curly hair and a worn messenger bag. She looked at me with evident concern.

"Uh, I'm looking for a police station," I said.

The other woman looked thoughtful. "Oh, it's a way back on Madison. You need help getting there?"

I nodded appreciatively. She smiled and hoisted her shoulder strap up further and motioned for me to follow her.

My shoes really were not suited for long stretches of walking in the city, as I found out. The leather rubbed uncomfortable against my heel and pinky toe. I tried to keep my strides limp-free but it was hard. The woman ahead continued quickly, sweater billowing out behind her. I gritted my teeth and hurried up to her side. She gave me a sideways glance and motioned with her hand to an area a bit down where a thick old brick building stood. I looked around, almost shocked at the lesser, older architecture that was around me, as the earlier modernness melted away.

We came upon the police station in good time. The woman stepped before the double doors suddenly.

"D'you want me to go in with you?" she asked.

I shrugged. She didn't strictly have to, but I didn't care if she didn't.

"All right. Well," she said rummaging through her bag and pulling out a pen and small pad of paper, "I've got to go, but if you ever need anything just call me." She finished writing and tore the sheet off, extending it to me. I smiled politely and sort of waved at her as she left. I glanced at it. Melanie Rislie. I put the paper in my bag and went inside the building.

Inside the police station was fiercely air-conditioned. The cold air whooshed against my face after I opened the door. A little bell clinked , gaining me a few stray looks but no one rushing to greet me. I stepped into the lobby and looked for something. A yellow book sat on the counter against one wall. A phonebook, probably. I walked over to it, affecting a nonchalant look and stride so I wouldn't draw attention to myself. I flipped the book open and stopped short. Who was I looking for? My brother, I guessed.

I scanned my eyes down the page, looking for familiar names. Toler, Topeka, Torres, Torenski. Wait, the last one seemed familiar. I looked at it again. Torres, Maria.

A hazy memory floated up from my early years of a woman yelling out that name, shifting to heat and smoke and a scared green-eyed face wrapping warm arms around me and carrying me away. I realized who it was; Big sis!

I almost squealed in excitement. I knew someone to talk to, someone to call. Even if I didn't need her, necessarily, there was still someone from my past there. After pretty much disappearing from the country, it was nice to recognize things. I paged over to the "M" named with renewed vigor. Neither I nor my brother adopted a last name other than the ones we were born with: Rossellini, Muller. I looked for his name; it was so distinctive I was sure I could find it. Except I couldn't. His name was missing from the list altogether.

"Excuse me, miss, but do you need any assistance?" a voice said as I was tapped on the shoulder for the second time that day.

"Uh, I do," I mumbled dumbly.

"Do you need the help of the police?"

"I guess I do." I turned to see the owner of the voice. An officer stood next to me, a gruffness on his face that I wasn't expecting.

"Let's go to my office then," he said and started to the hall. I sighed and headed of behind him.

The office was crowded with papers and photos. It smelled strongly of coffee and caramel. His keys and equipment jangled as he settled into his chair. I sunk into a smaller chair to the corner of the room.

He took a deep swig from a coffee mug on his desk. Leaning back, he turned to me and said, "So, you looked pretty intense with that book there."

I shrugged. "I guess so."

He laughed. "Are you always this indecisive? What were you looking for?"

"It's a long story," I started, well aware that I would have to explain if I had any chance of getting anywhere.

The cop sat further back in his chair which whined in response. "I have time."

I gave an abridged version of the events, mentioning my father's name and where he worked for good measure. He had been fairly well known… at least I thought he was. I knew for a fact that he had written several published papers, so maybe he would be known in the scientist circuit.

"Well. You're Albert Sartre's kid? He's been missing for years now. Just up and left." He stopped and laughed. "And you just turn up out of nowhere, saying you need someone to take you in cause your dad can't take care of you anymore."

"Um, yeah. I have papers. That I found them in my house." I passed the folder over his desk. He flipped through the pages, nodding as he took in the information. I bit my lip in nervousness. He stopped short at one of the pages, his face suddenly turning confused then grim. I bit my lip harder, tasting blood. The cop sighed and rubbed his eyes then set the open folder on his desk. I could see small legal looking print on the page, and a paperclipped photo of my family: Dad, Erhard, and me.

"Your brother," he started, sounding weary.

I nodded. It would make sense that Dad would have put Erhard as my designated new legal guardian as soon as Erhard turned 18. He was incredibly mature for his age as long as I knew him.

The cop looked at me with _sympathetic pathos_ (why is this italicized though) in his eyes. "Darling, I don't think your brother can get you."

"What? Why!" He was an adult, my adoptive brother since forever and the most ridiculously responsible person ever.

"He – well… I'm pretty sure that he's the one convicted for the Cumberland College incident. Looks like him, same name. He can't take you into custody when in custody of the state."

I sat there shocked. "He's in jail?"

"'Fraid so," he said sympathetically. I felt the ache of tears, but I bit them back with a sharp bite on my lip. The cop looked at me closely and guardedly, as if he was afraid I would explode into emotional bits.

I swallowed and forced myself to speak. "I want to see him."

The cop lifted an eyebrow.

"No matter what's he's done, he's my brother. I haven't seen him in so long."

"Well."

"He's all I have anymore, I need him. Let me see him. I won't be long, I promise." I was aware I was laying it on thick, but all I could think at that moment was to get to Erhard.

The cop tried to smile. "I'll see what I can do. The soonest I could possibly get you in is tomorrow but it'll probably be two days or so. So where should we put you until then…"

He looked around his office, his eyes sweeping over me in a way that made me feel scrutinized, before stopping at a picture frame propped up on the desk. He picked it up, his face thoughtful.

"You know… I bet my wife wouldn't be too upset if you stayed with us. I'll give her a call. And after that I'll see about a visit." He smiled and started to dial the phone. I sighed. Everything had gotten a lot more difficult.

* * *

><p>Just as the cop, (whose name I learned was Thomas Sheridan) predicted, his wife had no problem taking in the lost little girl from the street. She came and picked me up from the police station in a nice red SUV. She got me McDonalds from the drive-thru and played the radio so I didn't have to talk.<p>

They had a daughter at home, a girl older than me by maybe a year or so. She showed me the guest room when we got to the house and decided to sit and socialize.

"Hello. My name is Rebecca," she said, probably trying to be nice.

"I'm Rosalia."

"Do you have any idea how long you'll be staying with us?"

I shook my head.

"Oh, well that's cool," she got up and walked to the door. "We can be friends and stuff. Just talk to me." With that she left the room, her bouncy hair swinging behind her. I collapsed into the bed and began flipping through the TV channels. I didn't really watch what was on. I just looked at it, vaguely comprehending what was going on. I had been without TV for so long, so I didn't recognize most of the shows.

Later, the cop came home and we had dinner: spaghetti and meatballs. He said that I would be able to go see my brother in two days. I was happy about that.

The whole family swallowed me into the fold of the running of the house for the night. I had to help wash the dishes; something I wasn't too broke up about. I usually made the whole dinner back with Dad in Mexico, so this wasn't anything new. The busy work kept my mind from what I had learned.

But when I tried to sleep that night, I couldn't get any rest at all. I just kept thinking about my brother; him in jail, him with me growing up, him being crazy supergenius smart. I couldn't wrap my head around him in jail. The whole concept was insane. My brother, at least the one I knew, was a stickler for the rules. I hadn't had the courage to look up anything about the "Cumberland College incident". I knew that's where he went to school and Dad worked. I could assume that something had happened there, but I wasn't sure what. I just tossed and turned thinking about it. But eventually I managed to sleep.

I woke up from my restless slumber in cold sweat, the image of my father holding a gun to my chest, blood running down his chin and soaking his shirt still emblazoned in my eyes.


End file.
